Spilled Milk
by SpankingHalo
Summary: Alpha Amanitin, deadly yet vulnerable vampire slayer. Bladeheart Nightshagger, dark and tormented assassin. Jan Klaus the Damned, vampire lord and passionate seducer. Love, lust, death and a dancing penguin! Yes – it’s parody.
1. Chapter One: Like A Virgin

**Spilled Milk**

It had been a tough day. Any day where you come home covered in blood usually is, but at least it wasn't mine; however, it had completely ruined my white leatherette top and spilled disturbing patches on my four-inch green heels. That's what happens when you take on the forces of evil in a strip club.

My name is Alpha Amanitin, and I spend my time mingling with the supernatural. I know what you're thinking: stakes, studly preternatural sexual tension and gore-filled gunslinging, blah blah blah.

Trust me, it isn't like that.

The evening began with a bang when my close personal vampire friend, Jan Klaus the Damned called me up and invited me for an 'intimate tete-a-tete' at his latest venture.

"Is this another cheap excuse to ply me with wine and try to convince me that being a vampire is the best idea ever?"

"Would I, mein liebling?" he said in that harsh yet deep and sexy German accent that reminded me of my cat hacking up a hairball.

"I'm not your damn liebling," I snapped back. The sexual tension thrummed down the phone like a Rampant Rabbit on full power. "And you've been trying to get into my pants ever since we met."

"Think of it as a personal challenge. I find your beauty…beguiling."

Every man found me irresistible, so I could see what he was getting at. I'd been told I had the body of an Aztec deity, Quetzcoatl. Waves of blond hair spilled down my back. If you look hard at me, my eyes are that rare shade of neon green that changes to glittering turquoise if you get me riled, like the gleam of nuclear fallout. I was short, but my lower centre of gravity gave me the advantage in fights, and in bed. Leverage, you know.

I thought it over. "What's the occasion?"

"The opening of my new coffee shop and strip joint, _Bump and Grind_," he answered smoothly.

"Nice to see you're branching out," I commented, my insides begin to spill over with anticipation at the thought of coffee made by Jan Klaus. "What time?"

"Midnight, mein liebling," he murmured, every syllable like a lyrical axe to the head. "When else?"

"I'll be there," I said briefly, and hung up.

As I knew Jan Klaus the Damned's main intention was to rip all my clothes off, hold me down on the floor and satisfy his violent carnal lusts, I decided to dress conservatively. Nothing like a little subtle fashion sense to keep him away.

By eleven, I was dressed and ready; my five inch green minskirt made my eyes shine like the skin of a dead frog, and the white leatherette top was both practical and comfortable, stopping at least an inch below my breasts, and flashing only half my cleavage.

But a great outfit isn't anything without a bit of bling. I carefully positioned a broad sword down my top, strapped a row of grenades to my thigh, and for that extra bit of comfort, tucked a picture of Tigger into my handbag. It's a little known fact that symbols of mass commercialisation repel the undead, and hey, can't carry the golden arches round all the time.

I topped it all off with a pair of killer heels, and took one last check in the mirror.

Yep. That was the way to say no.

X - X - X - X - X

He was tormented by a dark past. It fogged around him, lingering like smoke on everything he did. Or perhaps that was his fifty-a-day chronic smoking habit. But no matter; he was tormented, and each gasp of perfumed nicotine felt like a cloud of smoke choking the life from him.

Every night, he woke sweating and screaming, thrashing and sobbing, alternately swinging between manly choking-back, and the high pathetic sound of a kitten chewing its own tail in a fit of madness. His sheets were drenched in sweat-well, probably sweat, and he found himself trembling, thrusting back those memories into the murky and anguished depths of his mind.

God, those dreams haunted him like Patrick Swayze half-naked, blurring his logic with endless rage. He was always angry, driven by his past. He had tried drink, and found no peace: drugs only mazed and befuddled him; even rock n' roll could give him no solace.

All that left him was violence, and the release of murder.

Once, there had been another way, a gentler way. But that had died and all his hope with it.

He had shed bitter tears when the Featherbay Quilting Club had shut it doors on him, shunning him – thrusting him into the cold and brutal night like McDonald's throwing out the night's rancid burgers. They hadn't been able to accept what he was. They had called him monster.

The sound of his own voice sounded in his ears, sounding like a terrible sound. "But…" he'd protested, "I'm just like you."

He'd battered on the doors, his voice rising into a howl. "All I wanted was to quillllllllllllt!"

And then he'd been so angry, so very very angry…

It was better not to think about that. About those dark, tormented times. After all, he saw them in his dreams every night, flames dancing around him like oiled Chippendales, licking at him, so disturbingly…beautiful.

Bladeheart Nightshagger had become an outcast, a dark tormented outcast, full of bitter bile and whisky. Yet that dark, tormented heart was hidden by a body that would have made Michaelangelo go 'Like, whoa!', and scrabble for his Etch-a-Sketch.

The night was pitch-black, the moon a thin edam slice in the sky, spilling silvery light across his face like a divine blessing. Or possibly like a horrible hydrochloric acid accident.

He was a dissonant chord on the landscape. Amid the stubby ranks of gravestones, he alone lived, breathed and chainsmoked. Well, him and the voles. And the mice. And the insects.

But, y'know, everyone loves good melodrama.

He blew a stream of smoke out into the dark night, and it drifted up in tormented spirals, like the lyrics of a Celine Dion song. His eyes were a cool rippling black, and held the shimmer of an oil spill on a smothered seagull's wings; they matched his thick pelt of hair, licking round his neck, a mane of glorious locks, a delectable forest of dark roots, hair that needed fingers run through it, and possibly those split ends trimmed.

His features, painted in angelic tints by the moonlight, were perfectly sculpted, the work of a master artist. It was as if Rodin himself had chiselled them, possibly by sitting on Bladeheart Nightshaggers' shoulders and hacking away until the screaming stopped.

"So you're here," a voice said from behind him.

He spun, his reflexes quick as a tortoise. "Obviously," he answered coolly.

"And you'll do it?"

Bladeheart's smile gleamed coldly in the moonlight. "I'm intrigued. She seems so – insignificant."

There was something that sounded suspiciously like a snort of disbelief. "Don't underestimate her. She's dangerous – very dangerous. A human moving in Night World circles, and she's the private pet of Jan Klaus the Damned."

Bladeheart was tired of being given advice by people who knew nothing about his business. "Don't tell me how to do my job."

"I wouldn't dream of it," the voice snapped. "Forgive me for offering a little friendly advice. I want her gone, Nightshagger, and I want her gone now."

"Then you've come to the right man," he answered.

"I hope so. By the way – why the bloody hell did you want to meet in a graveyard? There's a restaurant just up the road-"

"Professional ethics," he said cryptically. In truth, he'd thought he made rather an impressive tableau; somehow, sitting in Taco Bell just didn't have that – zing. "You said on the phone that she's in town tonight."

"Jan Klaus's new strip joint. I've put you on the VIP list. Try to blend in."

Nightshagger looked down at his clothes. Black, black and more black, a subtle symbol of his evil nature. But not the kind of apparel suitable in La Caricature's chic strip joints. "I'll go and change."

_Alpha Amanitin, _he thought as he walked home, _I'll see you later. For the first and last time._

X - X - X - X - X

The cool air swished against my thighs as I walked, like the soft caress of fingers. My heels clicked on the sidewalk, my hips rolling in a way that made men glance at me as I walked past. I ignored them. Beauty - even beauty as startling and timeless as mine - was skin deep. It was what lay under my 36DDs that counted. And I don't mean silicone.

I turned into 36th Avenue with my dignity barely dented by the man who puleld up beside me in his Bentley, whispering lewd suggestions. After all, I was used to a far higher quality of sexual innuendo. It was what drew me to _Bump and Grind_, and Jan Klaus the Damned.

Jan was an ancient vampire from the twelfth century, with an immaculate fashion sense and an innate grasp of politics. Among the Nightworld, they called him La Caricature, which meant 'the bearing of a feline'. He was revered for his exclusive and decorous strip-joints, and his ability to resist even the most stringent of editing.

But most of all. Jan was known for his seductive, suave manner, his love-them-and-leave-them philosophy. The result of centuries of culture and history, he cut a swathe through any crowd in his purple leiderhosen and orange fur coat. One flash of those pearly white fangs, and women slumped like mackerel at his feet, to be scooped into his brawny arms and swept away to his secret love-nest in the depths of his gothic castle.

But like a bat out of hell, he was gone when the morning came.

He was a lousy first date. Literally. Having come from a time when conditioner wasn't about, a date with Jan Klaus meant a date with antiseptic shampoo. No one had had a second date yet, but that was only because the instant he met me he sacrificed the spurious pleasure of an endless line of willing women for a life of celibacy until he could win me over. Not likely.

He met me in the parking lot, stood under a streetlight, his cardboard crown cocked at a jaunty angle, and his long black hair swaying around him like a horde of unwashed snakes. His eyes were a stormy grey, cumulo-nimbus with a hint of stratus. The planes of his face were perfectly sculpted, like an amateur potter's first drunken piece of work, and as I gazed into his grey and stormy eyes, which were really more of a strato-nimbus configuration, I felt the pull between us, urging me to step closer.

I resisted staunchly, knowing it was only the wanton mind tricks of a devious vampire. "Jan Klaus."

"Alpha." He gave me a little bow, holding onto his crown. "I've been waiting for you."

I glanced at the Bump and Grind. Already I could hear the music pounding, pulsing, throbbing like a ripening promise of my darkest fantasy. Damn him.

"Play nice," I said firmly, "I'm here for the coffee, not for one of your cheap ten-minute seductions."

His half-smile was soft, tempting. "I have an expensive thirty-minute option."

"I'm not going to be your _pomme de terre_, Jan."

He looked a little bemused. "I think you mean _pomme sang_-"

"I know what I mean," I interrupted, facing him down. Not many women dared stand up to Jan; an inordinate amount preferred to lie down. I could see the gleam of interest in his eyes, but I didn't respond. "You're not my type. I like my men alive."

"I am alive in all the ways that matter," he purred.

I felt a quiver. I knew it was wrong: he was undead, Nosferatu, forbidden fruit. But part of me wanted to drown in him, part of me was drawn to his mystery and his darkness.

"Except," I said acidly, "the most vital one, as it were. No, Jan. It's always been no. It's still no."

He didn't seem disappointed or deterred. Instead, he only gave his enigmatic smile, and took my hand. He drew it to his lips. I felt the warmth of his mouth, the dual press of his fangs, and although I should have been repulsed, it sent a strange shiver through me.

"Come on in," he invited softly, and offered me his arm.

In this, at least, I would not refuse him.

X - X - X - X - X

SH would adore hearing any thoughts you have.


	2. Chapter Two

SpankingHalo apologises for the wait and can only assume that you realised an evil villain was holding SH captive in the dark bowels of a far away mountain. Despite this inconvenience, SH has returned, slightly more scarred and infinitely more radiant, to humbly present this literary offering, small though it be.

SH thanks the most blessed and obviously good looking, intelligent people who reviewed. To Damon's Luv Bunny is given the shine from SH's halo, and a whisper that one could not possibly confess to the AB vibe, whilst nodding one's head frantically. To the bounteous Mental Twitch, a lock of SH's sun-kissed locks, and the thought that parody is best done on not only the very bad - but also the very good. To Jega, an apple strudel, and thanks. To Mimi, a spill of evil chocolate, and a wink. To Strekoza, an electric blanket to heat your spine, and gratitude. To Shadow Play 23, a small copy of Michelangelo's _David_, crown jewels modestly covered; to praktikal magic, a small box empty of all the ills of the world, but containing hope for this most favourite of SH's fandoms; and last, to dogs die in hot cars, a phial contained the everlasting light of Duracell, that it may be a light where all else is dark, and thanks.

SH notes this is a short chapter, and blames the Ubermegaarchvillain who dangled SH over a pool of sharks. SH requests you do not think too hard about how exactly one manages to build a shark pool, never mind convey the sharks, to a mountain's inner secret depths, and wishes you good health and happy reading.

Spilled Milk - Part Two

I waltzed into the _Bump and Grind_ on Jan Klaus the Damned's arm, absolutely unaware of the stares that fifth-three lusty, hungering men were bestowing on me as saliva spilled in matching puddles at their feet. Together, we were a dazzling couple, his cardboard crown catching as gold as a meadow in springtime, my highlights gleaming as brassily as a tuba.

Behind us, someone retched with envy. Poor soul, trapped in mundanity. I considered giving them advice on how they could be more like me, but then I thought – no, that would be wrong. I stood, finely balanced on a moral knife edge, between the mortals and the monsters, petrified of which one I would become. Somehow, the world had stopped being simple, a strange version of what it once was, in much the same way as Tab was a shadowy version of Coke.

No one could possibly be like me.

"You see how good it could be, mein liebling?" he whispered in my ear, his tongue flickering out to lick my ear. Then he gagged. "God, Alpha, haven't you ever heard of cotton buds?"

Of course, there was no way he could comprehend the complex metaphysical powers of my ear wax, its gleaming honeyed clots, its shimmering golden layer the only thing between the world and a ravaging horde of vampires. I'd never asked for supreme world-destroying powers, I'd never wanted to become the scourge of the Nightworld, laying vampires-

"It's revolting!" he muttered.

-to rest with one swift blow.

My witch grandmother, an ancient lady who used to mutter soft spells to soothe me to sleep at night while she raided my piggy bank, had taught me all she knew. Unfortunately, many of her potions and salves appeared to contain a large quantity of marijuana, and due to the tight fist of the law, arranged to restrict many innocent practitioners of the craft, I could try few of her spells. What small hexes I possessed were enforced by my tight control of _zanshin_, a state of mental emptiness and calm, and my skill with any kind of weapon. I was deadly at twenty feet with maracas, lethal at fifty with a lasso, and unbeatable with a light saber at close quarters.

"I'm not interested in power," I informed him in a convenient authorial non-sequitur, releasing his arm. "You vampires, you think that's all we want. A chance to bask in your reflected glory. You think we're so in awe of you all – the vampires, the werewolves, the witches. We're like a line of cattle to you. You just want to control us like lab rats."

With a manly shake of his night-black curls that made my breath catch low in my throat, his power spilled out around him. It was immense, filling up the air around me with heat and lust as raw and crackling as underdone pork. As his curls, blacker than the blackest black of night, settled around him, I tried to hide the liquid desire that tingled through my palms, between my thighs like the promise of rain. Making a conscious effort, I stepped back from him, refusing to look into those eyes.

God, those eyes, like no man's I'd ever seen – I could suffocate in them. It would be a sweet end.

"Oh no, my Alpha," he said in a voice I had never heard before, that brushed over me like the thick caress of a man wearing a boxing glove. "That isn't what I want at all."

"I..." In my wildest dreams – not even the one where Richard Nixon rescued me from a Meatloaf concert in a batmobile – I had never imagined this was what he wanted. "Jan Klaus, I can't."

It rose up from within me like a beast, ravaging and rampaging as it always did. It felt like something tore in me. My past, sullied and shameful, poured over me until it swamped even that heady lust, consuming me with fear.

He saw the change in my eyes, the small shift in my body that I couldn't stop. And his face changed too, closing down as firmly and finally as Enron. "You won't, you mean."

I shook my head, dumb with old anguish, old sorrow, piling on top of me, this grief, this misery, oh, this neverending woe, more tragic than Hanson's reemergence. I did the only thing I could think of, hating myself for it, yet unable to stop.

I ran.

* * *

Nightshagger perched on a stool at the bar, a cigarette between his fingers, and one behind each ear. He crossed his ankles, swearing softly as his oversize pink flares tangled yet again. He could see her now, see the intense lines of her body, the passionate shape of her lips before she turned and ran.

She fell over almost instantly, toppled by the fact that Nike's new stilettoes ('Just Do Him') were not made for a slippery dancefloor.

This was what he was up against? Some squeaky little blond girl with a gun strapped to her thigh? This was demeaning.

"You want another?" purred the barmaid. He turned to face her, giving a small polite smile.

"No thanks." An idea struck him. "Wait…actually – yes. I'd like one for the lady."

He gestured to Alpha, tottering to her feet with the stilted grace of a rhinocerous.

"Don't you go encouraging her," warned the barmaid, pursing her lips. "Jan's already got his hands full."

Nightshagger eyed Alpha's top. It was low cut enough to be labelled as a black run, though he wouldn't want to put money on what one might encounter in woodland areas. "I'll bet."

"You know she thinks she's got witch roots?" the woman continued. "Keeps telling people she can raise the dead. Goes down to the graveyard at night, waits for the old-fashioned old vampires who like to sleep in their coffins, shouts 'Abracadabra' as they pop out, and then claims the credit. Tries to stake them sometimes."

Nightshagger pasted an interested expression on his face, and gave the barmaid a hint of his wicked, luscious smile. It was a smile to make the angels sigh and lust.

"But," she confided, leaning over to him, "they do say she's staked five vampires, and put down nearly ten werewolves. Poor old Dracula, she surrounded his tomb with Disney posters – walked straight into one, poof, instant mummy."

"By jimminy," said Bladeheart, mentally wincing. Where religion had failed, multinational corporations had triumphed. While the Nightworld was slowly buying out the major players, it was reaching the point where it was no longer safe for a vampire to walk down the high street. The arches loomed on every corner; Colonel Sanders' cackle chilled the blood. "What does Jan Klaus want with her?"

"Who knows?" They glanced over at the proprietor. He was walking across to some movers and shakers in the stoop-shouldered bandy-legged walk of rappers the world over. His purple fur coat was sumptuous in the half darkness, his bling rattling like a troupe of demented prisoners, luxury and refinement Bladeheart had been denied.

It had been Jan Klaus who urged his exclusion from the Nightworld – who'd sent assassins after him, and sent in suicide bombers, kittens stuffed full of TNT and ready to pounce. All because of that one bitter rivalry, the one time Jan Klaus hadn't been able to win through glamour or money.

Well, Alpha Amanitin was something he could deny Jan Klaus. And he would.

"Send the lady the drink," he ordered. And I, he added silently, will send her the bill. How she'll pay.

"Muahahaha!" he chuckled, rubbing his hands together as he fingered his goatee and dragged on his cigarette. Yes. All at once. "Soon, my pretty, soon."

The barmaid was looking at him strangely.

He coughed. "Throat infection," he explained, and when she turned her back, let himself have a last small, "Meheheheh!" before the fun began.

* * *

SpankingHalo notes that you're looking particularly dishy tonight, and gosh, your clothes are really cut wonderfully. SpankingHalo welcomes reviews and criticism, in between saving the world from another dastardly scheme.


	3. Chapter Three

SpankingHalo has returned from yet another epic journey into the great unknown. Called upon yet again to wrestle with demons and save tormented, fluffy kittens from almost certain doom, SH hopes you can forgive the long delay.

SH can only admire those most intelligent and devilishly delectable people who deigned to comment on the last humble offering. SH marvels at the divine countenance of Damon's Luv Bunny, and points out that when you take the bull by the horns, you inevitably get bullshit. To Strekoza, thanks and a promise of better updates. To Ash, SH admits they are indeed in possession of a crack. To the deliciously filthy Muds-Girl, thanks for the cookies, which were yummy indeed, and to the big, bad Samuel L Motherfuggin Frollo, who ain't got no snakes on their plane, a long lament for your dark tormented past, whose dark torments have touched SH's battered heart, and some Chuck Norris lovin'.

SH wishes you enjoyment.

**Spilled Milk – Part Three**

I had scrabbled into the relative safety of a darkened corner, my ankle nothing more than a throbbing lump. From across the room, I could feel Jan Klaus's gaze, heavy and slightly scratchy, like velcro. And I, the fluffy side to his scratchy surface, was inextricably tangled with him, unable to tear myself away.

Oh, my radiant beauty was a curse! From my glittering eyes, as spherical as ping-pong balls with a ring of colour and a black dot in the centre, to my long, shiny tresses, to my small but elegant legs and my waspish waist...oh god, it was a terrible thing to be irresistible, to be stared at and objectified, to feel eyes sliding down your back, wet and slimy as...as...eyeballs sliding down your back.

I knew that the unresolved sexual tension between Jan Klaus and I could not continue. Each time we met now, there was a strain in his manner (and a strain against his lederhosen) that told me his lust was barely controlled.

And so I didn't dare to look up and meet those meteorologically impossible eyes, beneath the strobe light the exact colour of convection-formed thunderclouds that had condensed around polluted nuclei.

"Ms Amanitin?" The waitress was stood over me, her voice cool. Flinty dislike made her face sharp and thin, and I wanted to cringe from her. I felt a fool. "The gentleman at the bar sent this to you."

"For me?" I said, trying to recover my poise.

She raised her eyebrows. "Apparently."

Tentatively I took the mug.

Coffee! I breathed in the bitter, smoky flavour and couldn't contain a shudder at the sight of it, a drop spilling over the side like desire denied. It was drowning deep, and slowly, I lifted it in my hands, brushing my lips over the rim of its coffeehood. I could swear that coffee shivered back, before I took one long, leisurely sip, rolling it on my tongue like candy. It was better than normal coffee; sharper, deeper somehow.

My spine bowed under the pressure of that sweet caffeine, spilling into my stomach like no hot beverage should, small hot tingles running out to the ends of my fingertips.

I felt more myself again, ready to take on the world and win.

I turned to look at my benefactor, and my breath stopped clean in my throat.

God, he was beautiful, sat there in those clinging pink flares that only emphasised the brute masculinity of his face, blowing cigarette smoke from his nostrils like a rabid yak. Perched under the bar lights, his face seemed to hold dark torment in those large, liquid eyes that were looking straight at me.

I could feel his desire, blowing from him like a breeze-

No. Wait. That was the smoke.

In fact...

I squinted at him. He wasn't smiling, or drooling; his gaze was firmly on my face, steady, unwavering, even. Despite the dim light, I could read a thousand things in the pellucid shadows of his stare; old suffering, swimming in his stare like a wounded walrus. Curiosity, in the left-hand side of his corneas. Strange, in the fathomless abyss of his pupil, a grief I could neither quantify nor comprehend.

The intensity of his stare stole my breath.

Who was he? What did he want with me? Who had put the torment in his dark eyes?

I didn't know. But I wanted to.

And god, as he watched me watching him watching me watching him, I wanted him.

* * *

She was coming over. Nightshagger didn't take his eyes from her; he couldn't help but admire the artifice in her every move. Her hips swayed like a snake charmer's dream, and under the neon lights, her skin had a peculiar brightness that made him think of glowsticks smothered in gauze.

Don't be fooled by her, he told himself. You know the deceptiveness of appearances.

Yes, he had known ever since his childhood; when the mask first came off, his innocence shattering with the sound of breaking glass. E minor, he thought. Or perhaps D major. Whatever. His innocence had been wiped out, the first indelible scar on his tormented soul.

Sometimes, when the nightmares were at their worst, he'd shut his eyes and pretend that first betrayal had never happened. He was nine again, clattering down the stairs because he'd heard the thudding footsteps that could only be him, yes, him-

And then he'd tumbled to his knees before the living room, and raised his hopeful eyes only to see...to see...

Bile rose in his throat, even now.

There, in a wash of red and white, his childhood slipping from his grasp. He'd screamed.

"I'm sorry," his mother had said, her voice rough as the back end of a hedgehog. "We thought...we thought you should know."

And in his father's hand, the symbol of it all; white and ragged.

"There is no Santa Claus."

And then there had been only his shrieks, filling the house with pain and despair, the last pieces of his naivety escaping his throat with his cries.

No. he would never be fooled again. He had been hurt too often. With an intake of breath, he dragged himself back to the present to see Alpha Amanitin stop before him, her lips parted, her hands linked demurely in front of her, displaying a mere nine-tenths of her cleavage in a neat inverse of an iceberg.

"I wanted to thank you," she said, her voice low and cool. He heard hesitancy under the words, and hardened his heart.

"It was nothing," he dismissed with faux-modesty, dropping his eyes as if her beauty had overcome him. "You looked like you needed perking up."

Her smile curved like a banana placed sideways. A curvy banana, not a straight one. "I did. It's been one of those nights."

"Ah, those nights," he parried, keeping it light, keeping it soft, though anger swilled around his stomach like last's night's bad curry. Actually...that was last night's bad curry. Well, it was spiced with anger. And cumin. But mostly anger.

She knew nothing of suffering! Nothing of torment! She was a little blond girl playing at power, nothing more!

"And I just wanted to let you know how much I appreciate it. It's not often strangers are so kind, and I..." She thrust her chest further forward. "I wanted to return the favour."

He kept his eyes sternly averted from the landscape of her torso. Disinterest; the strongest lure, far more potent than compliments or chloroform. "Oh, it was a gift-"

"And so is this," she insisted, tilting her face up to gaze deeply into his eyes. Her mouth was lush and inviting, her expression open as the public library, but not just between nine and five. "Please."

He pretended to waver. He bit his lip. He frowned. His eyes shifted from side to side. He put a finger to his mouth in perplexity. "Well...it is free coffee."

She smiled. "How do you like it?"

"Hot and smooth," he purred, letting seduction crawl into his voice. "And sweet and dark as sin."

Her eyes widened, a flush creeping up her face. "That's quite an order," she managed.

He leaned forward, just inches away from her. "I'm sure you can handle it."

Her rush of breath sounded like victory. But it smelt like mouldy cheese. Trying hard not to gag, he grimly hung in there, counting the moments, seeing the surrender dawn in her expression.

Her fingers brushed his arm-

And then it happened. He felt a tug, and there seemed to be something between them...a silver cord, dangling like a string of saliva from a porn star's lip, pulling him to her-

Fear shot through him; he knocked her hand away, gasping.

"What-"

"Nothing," he snapped, his heart thundering inside his chest. Not outside, which is the wrong place. "Static electricity."

Her face was ashen, and not just because he'd knocked the end of his cigarette all over it. "But you-"

"Didn't you say something about coffee?" he cut in ruthlessly.

"Yes...I...I'll go get it," she mumbled, and before she could say anything else, he flung himself from the chair, flung himself across the room, and flung himself into the privacy of the bathroom to gather his thoughts.

Oh god. She was his soulmate.

* * *

SH hopes that life treats you kind. And hopes you have all you dream of. SH wishes you joy and happiness. But most all, SH wishes you love. SH welcomes reviews and criticism, and offers of matrimony.


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